


When we were in flames, I needed you to run through my veins

by merrythoughts



Series: I know my soul's freezing, Hell's hot for good reason [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Torture, Introspection, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Nightmares, POV Second Person, Period Typical Attitudes, Suicidal Thoughts, This sounds really dark and maybe it kinda is oops, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 04:29:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13046511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts
Summary: Sometimes you dream of being shoulder to shoulder with someone, a familiar presence walking in stride with you.Sometimes you dream of holding a shield instead of a gun, but that makes little sense.[Bucky-centric. Follows chronologically the events after CA:TFA until diverging after CA:TWS.]





	When we were in flames, I needed you to run through my veins

**Author's Note:**

> Read the first part for the full experience of my pretentious wanna be writing/style ♥?

They clean up what’s left of your ragged arm and give you a weapon instead.

(All things considered, this is about par for the course of your life.)

It’s heavy, your body unbalanced and not used to the new unfamiliar weight that’s now attached to it.

( _Not yours,_ your mind screams.)

Metal gleams, plates shifts, mechanical digits maneuver with a faint _whir_.

( _Not a part of you_ , your body screams.)

Your immediate instinct is to lash out and your hand closes around a throat and squeezes the life out of an unsuspecting scientist.

A syringe is jabbed into you, the fight and fear dissipates as you lose consciousness.

(Welcome back, soldier; did you really think you were done?)

* * *

While it had been bad being strapped down to the table in the factory, it’s much worse _here._

A part of you still thinks, still hopes, that Steve will save you again, but as the days go by it's looking fairly bleak...

They observe your mental decline and they put you on suicide watch quite quickly; they’ve invested too much for you to be allowed to go and do a silly thing like kill yourself. No sharp objects for you, no bedsheets. You’re more than a prisoner. You’re a soldier, and in time, they’ll get their methods in working order.

They discover your weak point and, of course, it’s one Steve Rogers.

They inject drugs into your system that make you suggestible and a little delirious. Suddenly things that you were _so_ certain of don’t seem as concrete. Did Steve actually try to reach for you when you fell? Maybe not. Maybe Captain America _wanted_ you to fall because he knew you were a pervert and didn’t want a _queer_ on his team.

(If he was the light, surely you were the dark and maybe he knew that all along...)

You don’t want to be crying in front of them, your jaw clenched in silent protest as wetness slides down your cheek, but sometimes you can't help it. Your hands - one flesh, one metal - form into fists that have nothing to hit.

You feel weak. You feel defeated.

Eventually you stop resisting, your will being beaten down, your mind breaking because HYDRA knows how to press down on a bruise of vulnerability. All it took was watching a newsreel of his death over and over again. At first you didn't believe it, but they showed you multiple sources, left you with ratty newspaper clippings. You kept those black and white pictures of him with you until the ink began to smear from your own sweat and blood.

(He was supposed to make it out, hadn't that been the deal? How could he have done such a stupid thing,saving the world but sacrificing himself in the process. You don’t want to admit that it’s, just a bit, so _him._ )

Maybe this is Hell; you hope so, because then you wouldn't have to feel so guilty for giving up.

* * *

Just like before, they are curious of how far they can push you. There's no scalpels or breaking fingers this time, however. They know how you endure and heal. Instead they like to test your recall and skills after days of depriving you of sleep, food and sometimes both.

Can you still make the shot after spending time in suboptimal living conditions?

Turns out you can.

Time passes and whoever you used to be fades as a soldier slides in.

The sound of electricity reins you in.

They may strike you, but you still obey with only minimum hesitation and this pleases them.

You have a vague thought that someone you used to know would have been strong enough to continue to fight, but blonde hair and fierce blue eyes seem like something you've dreamed up in your desperation.

Little by little they remake you in their image. They take pieces of you and they have no plans on giving them back, but that's okay because over time you stop trying to remember them. You're a picture with countless cracks, but you'll serve their purposes just fine.

* * *

Your mission is complete. You return. You give your report. You put away your gear. You strip. They check their asset for any damage. You’re cleared only when they’re satisfied.

They hose you off like an animal and you think you prefer this to to when they brusquely rub at you with a barely damp cloth.

(You’ll forget this preference soon enough.)

A rough towel and a change of clothes are thrown at you. You dry off and dress and they watch. You automatically follow them down a dimly lit hallway and a distant memory of where you’re heading to has goosebumps rising up on your arm.

When you enter the room, blank eyes widen marginally at the cryostasis pod prepped and just needing you. Your limbs move a little slower as you step into the chamber and a shiver runs down your spine as the chill washes over you, the cold taking you again.

(You were only “awake” for three days in 1963, but you changed the world. You’re the new fist of HYDRA, didn’t you know?)

* * *

You're not the same weak man Zola met on the table, shivering and scared.

You're not the same man that they equipped with a weapon, your enhanced physiology having enabled your body to survive hundreds of feet from a fall, buried beneath winter.

You can speak a handful of languages. Russian. German. Italian. Japanese. Czech. Romanian.

(But what you're really fluent in is killing; your primary language these days is death.)

You're skilled with a plethora of weapons - pistols, rifles, explosives and knives. You’re able to cause destruction on a mass scale or take out a single target in a crowded space with equal ease.

(You, yourself, are the ultimate weapon.)

You need very little rest. You can fight through the pain. You feel very little, if anything.

When you are awake, your life is a simple one.

You're deadly, agile and lethal. Those who are unlucky enough to meet you quickly meet the ground, because you spare no one. Why would you?

They learn quickly that you operate best on your own and don’t work well within a team environment. You have handlers, superiors. You have mission targets and objectives.

The longer you’re awake, the angrier you feel, but you don’t know why.

(Are you angry at them or yourself?)

They’ve learned that it’s best for you not to be awake very long.

* * *

Your mission is complete. You return. You give your report. You give them the briefcase you extracted. You put away your gear. You strip. They check their asset for any damage. You're cleared.

They hose you off like an animal and you prefer this to to when they brusquely rub at you with a barely damp cloth.

(You’ll forget this preference soon enough, as you've forgotten it and relearned it many times over now.)

You’re a wet, shivering and feral looking thing that no one really pays much attention to. Unlike in the past, you’re a loyal dog now.

Dripping, you walk stark naked back to your room, lank hair plastered to your face and they lock you in. You may be loyal in your actions, but they still don’t trust you.

You're calm now so you go to your bed and crawl under sheets yellowing with age and look up at the ceiling.

(You can distantly recall that there was a time you paced around this room, caged like an animal, all pent up rage with nothing to maim; they have perfected their means to bring composure to you.)

The room is all white, but you wear black. Black vest. Black pants. Black goggles. Black mask. They wear white —no, only the doctors wear white. Or are they scientists? The scientists wear white too. White coats. White gloves. White masks. You don't see too many doctors or scientists here anymore, though, but they're around. Always around.

The other men… Soldiers. Those with weapons and who give orders, they wear camouflage. Muted greens and brown, the same pattern on the jackets and their pants. A red hat, sometimes.

Red.

Your arm is emblazoned with a red star. There’s a red book, but the cover has a black star—

Wounds bleed red. A knife or a bullet brings red. If you hit flesh hard enough, your fists can bring red too.

Earlier you hit Howard Stark hard enough that his nose shattered and there was red. She didn't bleed red, though. You could have made her, but for whatever reason when you went to her side of the car you thought it best to simply put her out of her misery. So, that’s what you did, your flesh hand closing around her throat until she stopped struggling. No red. No blood.

Bruises can be red, but they’re often multicolored, or fade into different colors - purples, greens, browns - but they don't last very long on your skin. You used to perform your own experiments, curiously watching how your body dealt with the small self-inflicted bruises until someone noticed the behavior. They then punished you and gave you many different colors to observe, all the while threatening to wipe you if you continued to act foolishly. You remember licking at your bloody split lip, the pain barely registering over the noise in your head.

Blood flows, trickles, dries, scabs, peels. You’ve been covered in blood, but it's usually not your own. You don’t bleed often _now,_ but you have a memory of a time when the smell wafted up and your nostrils flared in revulsion—

You sit up on your bed, pale eyes looking at pale skin and you seem surprised that you don't see red.

You know you’re clean and yet—

* * *

You hear them – the recruits – scream, restraints being tested to their full potential as their bodies burn and change, evolving into something much more dangerous.

(You've been here before, but you can't quite recall the details.)

You train them. You fight them and if they can best you, they're deemed suitable.

They're brutal and erratic, savage and deadly and you can't help but notice your handler eyeing them warily as if he's not too sure about them.

(How strange.)

You wonder if you're being replaced.

(You've been here before, the hint of something lingering, like elusive smoke filtering through your mind - a sensation you don't much care for.)

* * *

Sometimes you dream of two human hands running down another’s bony back, soothing words muffled... but that couldn’t be you comforting that small thing, you’re flesh and metal now.

Besides, you know you’re only a weapon, good for one thing only: bringing death.

Sometimes you dream of being shoulder to shoulder with someone, a familiar presence walking in stride with you.

Sometimes you dream of holding a shield instead of a gun, but that makes little sense.

* * *

The world has changed around you again - it's just an observation, you don't have any real _feelings_ about the matter. You're not sure what year it is, but that’s alright too. It’s a just a number, after all.

(You’ve been a number before.)

They only tell you what’s important - where you’re going, who you need to kill - that sort of thing. They instruct you on new tech, little pieces of equipment you put in your ear keep you connected with those who relay orders.

He really wanted to live earlier, managing an escape during your previous attempt, but you don't fail missions, so you shoot the target in the chest this time.

Your mind distantly thinks that Fury is an odd last name.

An associate (???) of the targets pursues you with an impressive show of determination, but you're not here to play so you throw the metallic disc back at him as if it were a toy.

(The weight of it is a little familiar in your hands, but that makes little sense…)

* * *

He has a nice unsuspecting home. Clean, but not sterile. Furnished, but not lavish. It’s still strange to find yourself sitting in the kitchen of man who gives you orders.

This one is a bit more reckless, doesn't treat you with the same amount of fear or trepidation that others in the past have, but he’s your handler.

You could kill him in the blink of eye. You won't, but you could. You're trained to find and exploit weaknesses after all and his is overconfidence.

He offers you a glass of milk and the gesture has you confused, but your face remains impassive. You know he’s not a kind man.

The type of men that give you orders are never kind, you’ve seen it proven time and time again.

He proves it to you now by shooting the civilian woman two times because apparently she saw something she wasn't supposed to.

(Was it _you_?)

Your jaw clenches, some unknown emotion seeping up, but you’re sitting in the shadows so he doesn't notice. You bury the feeling down. It’s not important and it’s not allowed. There’s only missions for you.

You have already killed one target, completed one mission, but apparently there's more work to be done.

No surprise there.

They refer to you as the “Asset” because you are a useful tool which they wield and now you have two high level targets to take out within ten hours.

* * *

You take care of the traitor Sitwell, ripping him from the car, discarding him like garbage onto the busy road. HYDRA does not suffer those who squeal.

One down, two to go.

Civilians scatter like mice amidst the chaos you bring, but your eyes are focused on N. Romanoff and S. Rogers. Casualties matter not. Confirmed kills are what you’re after.

* * *

They will fix your arm and have you ready to go soon enough because, as per expectation, failure isn’t an option.

The trouble is, you don't exactly care about getting a second chance because your mind is miles away, fragments of a past floating to an unstable murky surface.

_“Sergeant Barnes...” it’s a soft voice you’ve heard before, but you know there's a sinister intent underneath it all; it belongs to a small bespectacled man, a man whom you’ve had conversations with..._

_You see a train, you can almost feel the vibrations of how fast it’s going (“—moving like the devil,” a different voice had deduced earlier)._

_You hear **that** name again. You remember falling, seeing an outstretched hand that **couldn’t** save you._

_Pain (of course)._

_Then cold._

_Then nothing._

_Then **everything**._

_“Put him on ice” – words that will haunt you for many years to come._

_And you had thought you’d experienced the cold before, but in their tube, you’re introduced to a real frozen Hell._

A spike of anxiety and you attack, sending a scientist or a doctor – someone in white – flying back and onto the floor.

Guns are promptly cocked and pointed at you. This is a fight you can’t win, so you remain seated, muscles straining, a part of you _wanting_ the conflict - a part of you _needing_ to fight something.

(The violence is all you know.)

“Mission report.” At some point _he_ arrived and he is demanding as usual.

It’s an order. You should comply, but you don’t. Your mind’s trying to find the neural connection between the name “Bucky” and yourself.

“Mission report _now.”_ Impatience bordering on anger. Another order.

A smack. The sting gets your mouth moving. “The man on the bridge… Who was he?”

A question. You're not supposed to ask questions unless absolutely necessary, but—

“You met him earlier this week on another assignment.”

An answer, incomplete. It doesn't satisfy you.

“I knew him.”

The truth… this has never happened before - recognizing someone from… [Memories missing???]

He starts going on about your work (this one has always liked the sound of his own voice, you think), about how you’re a gift, how you’ve shaped the century (but you’re not done yet, soldier). He talks about order and chaos and a push, but you’re not interested in listening to a madman’s speech because you’re still thinking about the man on the bridge.

“But I knew him.” You insist, like this statement should hold weight and _matter._

It doesn’t because you hear, “Prep him” in response.

( _“Who the hell is Bucky?”_ Logically, it could be you, why else would he address you in such a way?)

“—Then wipe him and start over.” These are familiar words you simultaneously despise and fear.

Why is the man on the bridge so threatening to him?

(To _you?_ )

These are questions you don’t ask, but you want to. You _want_ to.

You frown in confusion, but willingly take the bite guard in your mouth, teeth clamping down on the hard rubber. Restraints slide around your arms, securing you to the chair. You’ve never liked being bound, but conditioning has taught you to not struggle. The sound of charging electricity is something you will never _forget_ and it gets your heart pounding nice and quick, chest heaving. Contact pads lock over your face and head. Your muscles tense and the anticipation _isn't_ worse than what comes. It never is.

Pain.

(And then nothing.)

You're a blank slate again, just the way they like it.

You've got a mission to do. Let's get it done, soldier.

* * *

Your mission target is bruised, bloodied, shot and stares back at you. He's surrendered for some reason, willing to keep taking your hits.

His blood is on you.

Your blood is on him.

Red.

Your fist raises to strike again but… a blink, you hesitate. In your hesitation your wet eyes widen, finally seeing _and_ realizing that the stubborn punk would have _let_ you kill him - but you don’t.

He falls (like you did), but he doesn’t scream and doesn’t reach out for your hand.

(Your heart–)

You hang there, one arm useless, the other one fully functioning. You’re shocked

seeing _———_ cracking _———_ remembering _———(feeling?———No)_

And you follow: you let yourself fall into the water below, find Steve Rogers (that _little guy from Brooklyn, unofficial soldier, hero, Captain America, your–)_ and drag him to land. You see his chest rise and fall, watch his lips move, and when you walk away, you only look back once.

It’s the end of HYDRA - probably - but, is it yours? Some might call it a second chance. Freedom, even. You don’t have time to process how you _feel_ about it. You’re in survival mode. You go to the nearest safehouse, your body directing where your mind can't even pinpoint. The three agents there are on high alert, but not expecting you. It makes it all the easier to dispatch them. You don’t really want to kill them (they didn’t personally do anything to you), but old habits die hard, and you don’t need word getting out that you’re still alive. You gather what you can: money, documents and some rudimentary first aid supplies. When you set the house ablaze you don't even look back.

You steal a car, drive miles away from whatever city you were in, away from the helicopters, news trucks, and noise. Away from _him._ You turn the radio on, but purposefully go past any stations, looking for the sound of simple static to fill the car and drown out your thoughts.

You find a medical professional who is willing to pop your shoulder back into place for a wad of cash, no questions asked. You drive a circuitous route for two days straight and constantly look back.

* * *

You debate with yourself for a long time about what to do, but you need to know more.

You return to Washington D.C, dressed in loose comfy civilian clothes, a baseball cap pulled tightly over your head. You avoid the color black.

( _“Buck, black isn’t even a color, it’s the–”_ )

You blend in well, but you work hard to force yourself to not behave like a frightened animal; you want to be just another nameless face in a crowd. Nothing special; nothing sounds better than that.

You head to the Smithsonian Museum looking for answers.

You head to the Smithsonian Museum looking for yourself.

Your pulse is steady even as you are faced with a display of the Howling Commandos, or at least, the faceless mannequins clad in their vintage uniforms. You swallow as your eyes take in a recognizable heavy blue jacket. Your hand wants to reach out, fingers itching to skim across the fabric, feel its familiar roughness, but you remain rooted in place. You know you need to behave.

There’s a large backdrop with them, though, Captain America in the middle and you by his side.

(It looks _right._ It feels–)

You turn and there’s a black and white image of James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes with the dates 1917-1944. It’s a tribute, or a memorial wall. You don’t understand why this exists. It tells a nice story about boys named Bucky and Steve being childhood friends, that Bucky was the only Howling Commando to give up his life in the line of duty.*

He was you, but you’re not him.

(You don’t know who you are.)

You don’t know what you’re feeling when you watch _her_ recording in an alcove. She would be an old lady now, wrinkled and weathered, but probably still beautiful. Dames like her –women with class and integrity, your mind corrects– often withstood the test of time. At least she had her happy ending.

(You don't know how to feel about that. Seventy odd years later and jealousy still wants to rear its ugly head.)

You go to the gift shop and buy a purposefully aged-looking notebook and a memento picture of Captain America and head back to the exhibit.

You scratch down the following notes:

-I’m Bucky (fact)

-James Buchanan Barnes was born in 1917 in Brooklyn (fact)

-Steven Rogers was my best friend (fact)

-He was small back then, sick a lot (fact)

-He was stupid and looked for trouble (memory)

Your hand shakes a moment and then you move on:

-I went to war (fact… was I conscripted? Doesn’t say)

-I hated it (memory)

-My unit was captured by Hydra (fact)

-Factory, Zola, tortured (fact)

-Steve got big (fact)

-Steve is Captain America (fact)

-Steve rescued us (fact)

-I was a Howling Commando (fact)

-I’m dead (lie)

- ~~I lov~~

That’s enough research for today. You slip out of the museum, flesh hand gripping your notebook, gloved metal hand stuffed in your coat pocket. You don’t have much in your new life, but this notebook is the first thing that’s truly _yours._

_(Whoever you are.)_

Later, you read over the first point over and over again.

I’m Bucky.

I’m Bucky.

I’m Bucky.

You repeat it until it starts to stick and little by little, you even start to believe it.

* * *

Some days are better than others.

Today is one of those bad days, for example.

Today you punched the mirror in the bathroom. You didn't like what you saw, so your fist destroyed the reflection.

It would have been better to use your metal prosthetic, but in the heated moment of disgust, you were stupid.

And then there was red.

Predictably, you bled like you were alive and human, sharp edges easily slicing through your skin.

(James Buchanan Barnes died, you're alive. Bucky is _alive._ )

But you shouldn't be. How many others would be alive if you had stayed buried deep beneath the snow?

One, two, four, five, nine—There's quite the list and you’re positive that's not all of them.

Shards of broken glass lay by your feet, on the counter, available and just waiting…

You could take a particularly sharp piece and jab it into your neck, go for your artery and it all would be over quickly in a spectacular display of red.

(You've bled a man out before, you know arterial spray empties the body quite efficiently.)

Trouble is, you can hear Steve's disappointed voice in your head saying, “Buck— _don’t_.”

You leave the mess. If the voice goes away, you plan on coming back and putting yourself down. This old dog has seen too much. Some things are better not left alive, after all.

It's what you deserve.

* * *

You can fire MK-16s easily enough, but fumble with a can opener. Before _‘I’m with you to the end of the line’_ you didn’t need to worry about feeding your body - it wasn’t important. There were missions and targets. There were commanders and handlers. There were orders and compliance, but now you’re free _._

You eat stale crackers instead, the can of tomato soup left on the counter, a battle you willingly walked away from.

You watch the TV, but the images and sounds are all too gaudy so you press the little down button on the remote control until the screen is filled with familiar black and white pictures. It’s a film you’ve seen. It’s a film about a mad scientist who creates a monster and you can’t help but think of the parallels: Zola as the scientist injecting you with the serum that burned in your veins.

You may not have been a monster when your best friend rescued you, but you were primed. Already you knew, but said nothing. What would you have said in your debriefing? You try and remember the questions they had asked you, but it gives you a headache so you give up after a few minutes.

Crackling lightning brought the monster alive. Crackling electricity brought _the soldier_ alive. Your back is rigid. Your fists clench - flesh and non-flesh. You force yourself to watch the film in its entirety, maybe to prove something.

Afterwards, you take a long hot shower and scrub viciously at your skin with a bar of white soap. You scrub until the water that runs off of you is clear, free of imagined grime and blood that you feel is there. You wash your hair and are confused for a whole minute about how it got so long. Then you remember.

Why would they give the asset a haircut? Looks don’t affect mission success.

You scrub viscously at your skin with a bar of white soap.

You still don’t feel clean... but how could you ever?

You grab the notebook and add:

-I like hot showers

There, now your day isn't completely useless.

* * *

You ferociously swing your metal arm at the enemy, all pent up rage and now with a target to maim. You don't often have to fight this hard or long, but you're operating on no sleep and with a few broken bones. You're snarling as you deflect a kick.

When you finally get one up on him, you hurl the man onto his back, climbing on top of him as you take his head in your hands and smash his skull against the ground. He grunts in pain, but still makes to try and push you off.

To prove you are the superior monster your thumbs come over his eyes and you jab deep down into his sockets, into the delicate flesh, a disgusting _squishing_ accompanying your motions.

You don't relent until your hands are soaked in red and the man doesn't move anymore.

(You are the superior monster.)

When you come to, you blink rapidly and run to the washroom, but at some point you cleaned up the broken glass. When? How long ago was that?

All you can do is shake while you wash your hands over and over again, trying to forget how vivid the red on your skin looked.

* * *

_When you were twenty-three and simultaneously hungover and sick with a fever (yes, not your brightest of moments when you had decided to stubbornly go out and drink to celebrate your good fortune at securing your latest permanent work), your best friend Steve Rogers sat beside you on the bed, a pot next to you. Cool fingers smoothed sweaty hair off of your forehead as he placed a cool folded up washcloth there. You kept waiting for him to deliver a lecture, but miraculously it never came._

_“What did I ever do to deserve such sweet care?” You joked feebly, glazed eyes searching his concerned face._

_He snorted and flicked you in the nose._

_“I’m bein’ serious.”_

_“You’ve taken care of me plenty of times.”_

_“Yeah, but you needed it.”_

_“And you need it now, jerk.”_

_It made sense to you, so you nodded and shut your eyes._

* * *

Of course you’ll go find him. Can’t _not_ seek him out, his magnetic pull still as strong as it was decades ago.

It frightens you as soon as you make up your mind to do so. You sleep and eat even less, your body completely out of sorts as it tries to prepare for what’s coming.

You don’t know what you will say. You practice speaking in front of the shattered bathroom mirror and your own voice is rough like gravel from disuse. “It’s Bucky,” you say. “It’s good to see you Steve.” That’s all you’ve come up with so far. You practice saying it until your throat hurts, you don’t even remember what your voice used to sound like, but you still don't think it sounds natural now.

You’ve been out of touch with reality for awhile now, but you don’t think there’s a precedent example to go with in this type of situation. You read books, watch TV, observe those around you and try to be a sponge and soak up _normalcy._ None of it feels normal for you, though. None of it feels natural.

You’ll only survive if you’re not caught and in order to do that you know it’s imperative to be normal and fly under the radar.

* * *

“Steve…”

One word - his name - the only thing your tongue can manage to form. You’re not even close to getting out what you’ve practiced saying.

Startlingly blue eyes widen in disbelief. Eyebrows draw up incredulously.

(He thinks this might be a dream; you're right there with him.)

Your heart is beating out a staccato rhythm in your chest.

(Two men out of their own time stare at each other; two boys with hearts full of—)

Unlike the last time you faced him, he’s unhurt. He's so goddamn beautiful - small or big, in the past or now - you'll love him until you really _are_ a ghost story.

His mouth parts and it's a half anguished sound that comes out, powerful legs taking purposeful strides and the distance shrinking between the two of you.

You stand there weighed down by the gravity of all of this emotion. You feel so goddamn much. You weren't aware that you could feel - and identify - all of this at one time.

(Hope. Relief. Longing. Love. Loss. Worry. Fear.)

Strong arms close around you and he crushes you in an embrace that hurts _inside_ somehow. You feel the closeness in your _bones_. It's a bit like cleansing an infected wound - the actions necessary, but pain laid underneath every motion.

His comfort starts to debride rot, and maybe the two of you can discover if there’s something still worth saving.

You're smaller than you were during the war, even smaller than when you fought him, so you let yourself fold into his body. He can be your protection now; you'll build high walls up within him. The future is uncertain, the past something unclear you don't want to think on, but with him you will let yourself just _be_.

(For now.)

Steve whispers your name over and over again.

(Yes, that's you.)

He kisses your hair.

You shake and he holds you tightly, firmly, securely.

(Welcome home, Bucky.)


End file.
